In All Gladness
by The OgeeBoogie Man
Summary: Chapter 5-Franklin Rouse trains with the other Comstar POW's, molding himself to the duty of battlemech piloting.
1. Reflections

---Author's note---  
  
Please give me extreme leniency in my writing this. I do not know much about the BattleTech universe, what house/faction makes what 'mech, tank or battle armor, or when sequential things happen. I do not know of the worlds and their climates, or when wars happened between them or what attitudes characters would have towards each other. I believe the quality of writing is in the essence, not the technicality. So do not boil me on little things like that, please.  
  
As far as battles go, I see them as more swift, highly tactical bouts rather than long, dramatic duels. I might not pay attention to all of a 'mechs small er pulse lasers or ultra AC2's and their corresponding damages and effects. If a 'mech were outfitted with short-range weaponry, it would be as an assault gun in real life, that is used only in tight situations-no running up to an LRM-armed enemy. Weapons will kill enemy 'mechs much faster than in the canon games and series.  
  
Another important thing-I will treat tanks as about the same strength as 'mechs, since they are roughly the same tonnage and composition. There is no reason a sturdy, low-built rolling machine should be as pathetically fragile and under-gunned as in the Mechwarrior games.  
  
I've played just about all of the MW games and recently gotten into Classic BattleTech and Mechwarrior: Dark Ages.  
  
---End of note---  
  
"Ten, hut!"  
  
A large, burly man, typical drill sergeant, paced back and forth between rows of soldiers. Indian summer, as usual. So humid, you could paint with the sweat in the air.  
  
My name is Franklin Rouse, and I've recently been drafted into the Com Guards. It was, of course against my will, as it was the first time I'd been caught up in a fighting force.  
  
At the time, it had been a pirate mercenary unit. I carried a rifle too big for my ego as well as my small, awkward hands, and only fired to scare. I was a fresh-faced rookie, straight out of a training academy. My father had needed the money at the time, and the mercenaries offered a hefty salary to anyone who would fight for them, foot soldier or 'mech jock. I was a foot soldier. I did nothing more than deter and distract, since I was none too good a shot nor a negotiator. I would hold the guards out while the others went in and did their thing. I would never hear just what that thing was until after the sortie. Sometimes I would like the thing, sometimes I wouldn't. And sometimes I'd simply be shocked.  
  
My father is deceased now, and it's partly my fault. He was hammering out a deal with a pirate captain, and with all the luck of a bald poodle, was spotted by a Com Guard reconnaissance ranger. The little dirtball had just happened to be carrying a sniper rifle, with a zoom just good enough to see the pirate's insignia and a bullet good enough to hit from more than a mile off. But he had none the aim to hit the pirate. He struck the man right in the stomach. Five weeks later, he felt the fatal effects of the punctured liver.  
  
Now I'm facing the nostalgia of being yelled at by an over-worked, underpaid tool known to most as the drill sergeant-or, in my case, sir. I am learning drill's I've been taught, and snickering at the rookie mistakes of other, less or more fortunate people.  
  
"Frank! You paying attention?"  
  
I looked up from my drab Com Guard overcoat. The man was looking right at me, chewing his storybook tobacco. He spat it and gave me that sideways smile that always managed to annoy the hell out of me.  
  
"Look at me when I'm talking to you! Yeah, that's right! Little piss bucket."  
  
"Sir! Yes, sir!"  
  
The sergeant went back to his routine of sewing up his boots just right, about as important in a live-fire combat situation as what brand of vile TV dinner you were forced to have last night. I looped it up, then inverted them and double-knotted. Like preschool.  
  
"All right! Now, then! Pair off! We're gonna do some shooting practice! Mr. Wagner will show you how to do it. Out there, boys!"  
  
He pointed out to a large dirt-and-gravel yard, with a small shawl you would lean against as you fired out at the targets. You would keep one eye to the scope, keep your trigger finger squeezed down just a little bit, then twitch when you think you had it in your sight. You would do it slowly, one or two bullets per second, so you didn't run out. When the sergeant (in this case, Wagner, a more reasonable but equally plastic- actor) came around, you would fire more rapidly and hold your breath to keep steady, and hope he didn't embarrass you by kneeling down and helping to correct your form. Then you would put down your rifle when he rang the bell, line up and head back inside for more verbal lashings from the other sergeant.  
  
I did all of that, like clockwork, and just happened to do very well, so well that it warranted a response from Wagner.  
  
"Good shooting, boy!" was his typical response. It made some hate you, and others respect you. Some might even ask you for advice so that they wouldn't have to forfeit dignity in asking Wagner.  
  
As usual, I was last in a line of pushing, shoving greens who would happily gulp down the best of the worst food ever served. Vegetables were always dry, withered or starched with little bits of mold (or spice, little difference in nutrition or flavor). Bread was stale and mostly rough bits of crust with crouton-like chunks mixed in. It literally had to be ground up and pasted back together in order to form a half decent patty. Meat was always over or undercooked, and usually bland mutton or even less desirable entrails of some sort. They would be combined into sandwiches, salads, soups and other concoctions, then packaged cheaply to wait for starving soldiers.  
  
After lunchtime, you would be forced out into the natural light again. This time, however, you wouldn't get to shoot. You would get to run around the perimeter three times until your lungs were worn out. Then you'd do it again. Every muscle in your body would ache. Your legs and feet would be on fire. When you came around to the sergeant, whoever it may be, you would pick up the pace until you were out of his sight, then you would slow down to the familiar but necessary jog. You would sneak moments of walking or rest when the particularly chatty soldiers weren't around. You would drown in your own sweat.  
  
Running the perimeter had its ups. You would get to pass the driver training compound and see other Com Guard newbies who were lucky enough to be tank operators. You would watch the sixty-ton metal beasts make tracks and shoot apart stone barricades. Two more often used vehicles were the PO and the Bulldog. The PO was a sturdy, heavily armored vehicle with a powerful 120mm gun that had a surprisingly fast rate of fire. Its two heavy machine guns could tear apart any men, armored or not, who would be foolish enough to attempt a frontal assault. The Bulldog was its all-or- nothing cousin. It had a huge laser as a main turret weapon, which lacked the armor-piercing punch of most ballistic weapons, though it was accurate enough to hit battlemechs more easily. On either wide were two racks of short-range, unguided missiles. They were supposed to supplement the laser at close range, since they packed enough explosive power to knock through the weakened armor that the laser had blasted away. And anything too nimble to hit it would be subjected to a hail of 30mm shells from its own machine guns. But the extra firepower was all at a cost, for the bulldog had thinner armor on the sides and front, and, more importantly, the turret.  
  
I could certainly be considered an unlucky man, even in the filthy urban life I've had to live. With my widowed mother in a hospital for some elderly disease that had sprung up and two indifferent brothers, one of whom had gone to college, I had really no one else to support me. I was stuck here for the six-month training period, or for a shorter time, if something would happen to spring up. 


	2. Fall of Belsen

"This is Vanguard Janet speaking. All lancemates report status."  
  
"Storm six, standing by."  
  
"Storm eight, standing by."  
  
"Storm nine, ready and waiting."  
  
An odd sight might befall anyone not used to seeing it. A pack of four battlemechs, flanked by two lances of tanks, moved in an inward wedge formation through lush, wet fields of grass and foliage. Four awkward, graceful, alien-looking contraptions mixed in with nondescript military vehicles. Their hips and legs moved in a very precise motion as to give the pilot maximum stability while running or maneuvering, and their arms and torso had several sophisticated joints to give near perfect flexibility and reaction time.  
  
A battlemech was an expensive bulwark of steel and glass. It had a near infinite combat advantage over a tank due to its tall, thin silhouette, and the fact that a pilot could react quickly enough to throw off most shots, whether being led on or not. If a tank targeted a battlemech and fired, the chances of it getting badly hit were slim. And unlike tanks, whose interiors were connected in a way that one good internal hit could destroy it, battlemechs kept all of their weapons, systems and equipment in separate compartments so that if an arm were blown off or a torso knocked out, it could usually still fight. Even if its height and slim build made it more fragile and limited the effectiveness of certain weapons, a mech would almost always prevail over a tank of equal or similar tonnage.  
  
I've gone off rambling again, I really should give you some leeway on what's going on. I am Janis Osiers of the Storm Vanguards. I've been in service with them for five years now, and have long grown tough as nails, both morally and ethically. It is thanks to my adaptation that I've risen to the rank of kernel, so I can enjoy spearheading the deadly forces at my sides. It was my skills and natural abilities as a battlemech pilot which made Mikhail, my tactical superior, grant me such.  
  
I was more or less a suburban-born piece of trash when I gave myself to what my family saw as the wrong people. I had nothing else aside from the ruthless incentive to do whatever told to me, and the ability to control the 30-foot-tall armatures of power at my disposal. But I must say that even through the rush of watching molten fireworks of burnt steel, I have my personal limits. And thanks to Mikhail's generous leadership and forgiving standards, I've never been pushed too close to them. I do nothing much worse than maraud. Not saying too much, I'm afraid.  
  
"We're closing in on Belsen. Go passive sensors only, recon squad spotted a communications relay toward the center earlier. Slow down to 40kph and stay low in the trees."  
  
Wind whistled past my 45-ton Shadow Cat as I strode through scraping leaves and reaching branches. I could mark my lancemates a bit ahead of me, their battlemechs leaving narrow trails of flattened trees. The tanks stayed ahead.  
  
"We're nearing the end of the field, coming out to the rocks. Armor units stop your advance. We can't let them see us just yet."  
  
The Com Guards had established the fortress that lay ahead. It was a large, foreboding structure that stood high in a pit of gravel and concrete, dug in about 20 feet down on all sides. Turrets were barely visible in silhouette whenever the thunder struck. It was the sole source of Belsen's arsenal. Once the filthy control freaks were taken out, the city would fall like a fly.  
  
I stopped my Shadow Cat completely, then rose up to its full height. The cockpit, which jutted foreword in a small square canopy, was just above the highest branches of the green saplings. I drew up the targeting reticule, then armed my battlemechs main weapon, a powerful magnetic rail gun. I zoomed in until I could clearly mark the outline of a satellite dish pointing into the clouds. I triggered the button on my firing joystick. It fired the rail gun, whose projectile was so fast that it could not be seen-it would only leave a mild distortion from the air vacuum. Almost as soon as it was fired, the tower was struck, and a gray explosion of rubble and dust obscured the impact point. The shock wave of the projectile has surely shattered the dish to pieces.  
  
"Communications relay is destroyed. Advance, armor group. Storms, stand by with me, follow behind their formation."  
  
I waited a few seconds, then gunned foreword slowly. The trees cleared, and I could see the fortress plainly. According to my infrared detectors, none of the turrets were active yet. No vehicles or infantry had been deployed for defense. I armed my rail gun (called a Gauss Rifle) just in case. Then, I heard a crackle on my own frequency.  
  
"Kernel Janis, this is Vole. We've spotted an armored column moving outward from the other side of the fortress. They were prepared. Make best speed around the eastern side to flank them. Vole over."  
  
Vole was my faithful reconnaissance squad, which hovered miles over the battlefield silently and furtively in their Kestrel scout helicopter. Heeding their warning, I immediately jumped into full gear, but decided not to activate my MASC (Myomer Accelerator Single Circuitry). My battlemech broke ahead of my lancemates, who had moved up accordingly. It was time to deploy my diversion, two lances of four battle tanks each, which would hold up the column in front while my lance snuck in from behind. Two of these were Brutus assault tanks, which were equipped with powerful lasers and missiles of all ranges for any type of combat. They were state-of-the-art vehicles that were more effective deployed in penny packets than in groups. Four more were the nondescript Vedette medium tanks, cheap, sturdy vehicles carrying only a fast-firing but unreliable 80mm cannon. The last two were Condor hovertanks, which had similar guns along with a smallish missile array.  
  
"Armor units, break off and meet the enemy. Shoot for the heaviest. Storm group, we're going around behind. Keep sensors passive, and don't fire until we're inside the ditch. We should avoid the harder stuff and only have to deal with point defense."  
  
And just at that, with all of us expecting a shred of luck, my sensors indicated that the turrets on the upper and lower decks of the building were buzzing to life. They looked like little boxes with unrecognizable guns poking out of thick, callused armor. I pointed my gauss rifle reticule over one. My frequency crackled again.  
  
"Janis, be careful. Those turrets in the ditch are loaded with what look like large caliber guns, possibly lasers. The upper ones are long-range missile batteries, but it looks like you're well within their range already. Suggest avoiding them."  
  
Instinctively, I fired my gauss rifle. The shell struck the turret before it could swing in my direction. It was too dark to see the blast, but I prepared anyway for the twenty-foot drop into the ditch.  
  
"Get ready to fall. Try to take out some of those turrets, if possible."  
  
My Shadow Cat ran straight into nothing, then hit the ground, letting its complicated battlemech gyro computer stabilize it without losing too much speed. At point blank range, the turrets would be less likely to hit us. I heard my lancemates follow suit, and I looked over my shoulder into the rearview camera to see one of them tip over and fall. It probably wouldn't hurt her too much. Not to be distracted, I narrowly swerved to avoid stepping on another turret, and heard the swoosh of short-range missiles firing, followed by a faint explosion.  
  
I was now certain that the fortress was between the enemy tanks and us. I faced the building, then fired a point blank gauss rifle shell into it. As dust and debris obscured my vision, I fired the Shadow Cat's two only other weapons, a pair of medium-sized lasers, which flashed a green color and struck the battered wall. I eased my mech back.  
  
"Storms, assist. We need to crack this thing open and force everyone out. Target my breach and fire."  
  
As usual, the Storms were quick to respond. They pounded away with their lasers and short-range missiles. We eventually made a large enough hole for a large tank to fit through. Stunned personnel began to pour from it, as well as descend from higher levels via ropes. This gave me another opportunity to talk to Vole.  
  
"Kernel Janis. Vole, how are things going down there with the tanks? Have ours drawn theirs off?"  
  
"This is Vole. Good job Janis, you took them by surprise. The Storms are winning. It seems the barricades are restricting the Com Guard tank's movement. They're getting pretty beat up."  
  
"Can you give me their exact numbers?"  
  
"I spot four PO-class heavy tanks and six Bulldog heavies. Two of them appear to be destroyed, and one's stuck halfway in the ditch. The Storm Vanguard tanks are moving around for another flank."  
  
"All right, thanks." I switched frequencies back to my lance. "Okay, we're headin back out there to cut off the Com Guard tanks. Let's hit 'em from behind."  
  
As rounded the fortress, we rose until the top halves of our battlemechs were well out of the ditch. It was a turkey shoot. I trained my gauss rifle on the rear armor of a Bulldog tank and fired. The shell broke right through and destroyed the turret, leaving the body to slow to a stop. I spotted a group on ground infantry running off in the Storm tank's direction. A laser shot scattered them.  
  
I had overlooked a couple of PO heavy tanks, which had turned back toward us. I waited for my gauss rifle to reload, but it usually took twelve to fifteen seconds. Both tanks fired, and struck my mech in the arm and fuselage. One shot smashed the battle fist to pieces. The other penetrated the armor, but was thankfully too wide a shot to damage the engine. It caused the shoulder hinge to hang by a few sinewy metal wires. I ducked my mech and let the arm touch the ground. My right wing, a Commando, fired its two volleys of short-range missiles, while to my left, two Wolfhounds unleashed the full extent of their fury with powerful energy beams.  
  
Upon raising my mech, I saw that one of the tanks had been penetrated through the front, and the other was leading off to the left, its turret in ruin. I breathed a sigh of relief before I saw something that made my blood turn to ice. Two battlemechs, illuminated by the light emanating from the fortress, began to stride toward us. They had sturdy legs, and very large, sawed-off looking weapons mounted on their right shoulders. The boxy cockpit and cylindrical torsos threw off all of my suspicion that they were Hunchbacks, which were large, well-armored battlemechs that were used for short-range combat. Their cannons were immensely powerful, but wouldn't hit anything more than 500 meters away. And here we were, trapped in a trench and unable to move very fast.  
  
"Armor support, Storm tanks, attack those Hunchbacks!" I yelled, already dreading what POW to the Com Guards was like.  
  
The Hunchbacks moved closer, clearly mocking us. A thundering round was fired. It hit one of my Wolfhounds in the right side of the chest. That portion of the battlemechs upper body split off, taking the arm mounting its largest laser. A second round from the other Hunchback doubled on the mech, and hit it square in the center of the chest. The mech seemed to disappear in a cloud of dust, but I noticed the streak of light shooting up just after the impact. The pilot had ejected. This smart decision would spare him his life. But what remained of his fighting machine would now do nothing more than stand lifelessly until it was torn apart for scrap metal.  
  
Blessedly, a shower of small orange streaks collided with one of the Hunchback's sides. It was of a Brutus assault tank. It followed up with its two powerful lasers, and fired its other, non-guided missiles. All shots seemed to connect, one after another, until a bright blue flash indicated the battlemechs reactor going critical. He too ejected, leaking a twisted hulk of dead machine. This turned the tide of the battle, and so I decided to close it. I contacted his frequency.  
  
"This is Kernel Janis of the Storm Vanguards. I order you to power down your mech this instant!"  
  
"This is Kelly Montpelier of the Com Guards. I've received your order, and will power down immediately."  
  
"Of what rank are you?"  
  
"I'm currently an Adept. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Contact your superior and tell him to surrender. Tell him he's outnumbered, and that if he doesn't, we'll trap him in the fortress until he starves."  
  
"Will do. Powering down."  
  
The Hunchback sank, its knees bent, and the pilot lights went out. After a few moments, the few remaining tanks had stopped firing. The fortress was given up. I decided to give word to Vole.  
  
"Attention, vole. Tell Mikhail I'm done, and get troop support in here. The fortress is ours. Bring the salvage and reprogramming squads in here. Repeat, mission complete."  
  
This little sortie has me reminded that every time I strove for greatness in the Storm Vanguard name, I risk my life.  
  
I should probably tell you that I do not get very close to my comrades, which is why I cannot bother to remember their names. I rarely get stuck with the same unit for too long. 


	3. Late Support

"I'll see your five and raise you a bill."  
  
If I could name one thing that I truly enjoyed at the Com Guard training academy, it would most definitely be the single social hour we were allowed each night. It God's pathetic attempt at a silver lining for a poor situation. We could throw darts at an old target strung up near my bunk, or we might get a few hours of sleep, or just sit by the calendar and recount the number of days until graduation. But doing those brought back reminders that I'd done them all years ago, before the pirates (whose names I can't even remember anymore) picked me up and dropped me back here.  
  
A floor might suffice, and a bed could do it justice. But no, to appreciate a game of poker, you had to have a fucking table. And you would sit there, marveling at the novices of such a game, but similarly lamenting the lack of value C-bills had in a place where everything was ration stamps, whipping and commodities.  
  
"Y'all ready?" said Joseph, the jock. The big, dumb jock.  
  
"Hmm," started Gabriel. "I've got crap. I fold." Gabriel always folded.  
  
"I'm about right," I said.  
  
"Okay, no one says no then. Four sixes, read 'em and weep," said Joseph. It was like a child bragging about a lucky penny.  
  
"Sorry, Joey, guys. Full house." I set down my hand, which had two Demi Precentors and three Adepts. This would be the rough equivalent of two kings and three queens.  
  
"Well," said Louis, "I think I might've beat you. What's a straight worth?" Louis was a total newbie to fighting. He was only seventeen.  
  
"Straight flush?"  
  
"Nah, just two to six."  
  
"Sorry, man. I win. Winner takes." I took the twenty folded, ruffled C- bills out from the center plate.  
  
Com Guard poker was interesting, since the only decks you could get at the academy were based off the Com Guard's military. Two's were an infantry squadron, which was about where we were. Three's and four's were fancy inner sphere battle armor-type units that I'd never seen fight. Fours and fives were hovercrafts, a Pegasus and Condor, respectively. Sixes were a Bulldog, sevens were a PO. Eight was a Padilla artillery tank, a rude thing with gigantic artillery rockets. Nine and ten were Typhoons (which we never saw around hear because wheeled units couldn't move diddily in the marshes) and Alcorns, which were so rare and expensive, they were used sparingly.  
  
The face cards were different rankings portrayed in different battlemechs, which I couldn't name. I knew nothing about battlemechs. A Jack was an Acolyte, or warrior. Queens and Kings were Adepts and Demi Precentors. Adepts commanded six-unit squadrons. Demi-Precentors commanded a battalion. And aces, of course, were Precentors, commanders of a division.  
  
"You play this often, then," said Joseph. "I ain't see people play so well around where I was from."  
  
"Poker is one of those things where practice doesn't make perfect. It's either you're born with it, or you're not," I told him. "Another round?"  
  
Before they could refuse, the alarm went off. A loudspeaker sounded with the sergeant's voice.  
  
"All comrades, alert! Get your asses in gear! Strong Point Defense Fortress Watchdog Two is being attacked!"  
  
We were quick to shoot to our feet. This was what we had been trained to do for months. React quickly and in deadly efficiency. We grabbed up our rifles, snapped on our helmets, then slipped into our flak jackets and backpacks. Our boots and everything were already made up, the sergeant insisted we have the fastest possible response time without having to look like a dork 24-7.  
  
"All comrades, alert! Strong Point Defense Watchdog Two is being attacked! Battlemech and vehicular advances sighted! Support defense column immediately!"  
  
We ran down the corridor, single file so we didn't trip over each other. It looked pretty cool, just a straight stream of soldiers shooting out into the night. We met a large group of armored personnel carriers and battle tanks outside.  
  
"What squad are we?" asked Joseph.  
  
"Thirty two!" I yelled. "We're in APC number thirty two!"  
  
I spotted the dingy marking of '32' on one of the APCs and jogged toward it. It was a Badger Tracked Transport. I packed myself inside to make room for the eleven other people, making twelve, or two points of infantry. We were the cesspool, the dirty workers. We stood stiff as the Badger lurched foreword, reaching its top speed in seconds. Treads ground on the dirt that soon became the smooth pavement of city streets.  
  
"I'm freaked, man," said Louis.  
  
"Yeah, well, you're not the only one," I reassured him.  
  
"Why should you be freaked? You've done this a million times."  
  
"And it just gets scarier and scarier to know you've tweaked statistics so often."  
  
"Who are we fighting, anyway?"  
  
"Well, the sergeant said legs and treads. So it's gonna be hard."  
  
"You think ours have held theirs off?"  
  
"Somehow I doubt it." I did doubt it. Why should we be blessed with such luck?  
  
After a short bolt through the city, the Badger came out into the field behind the Watchdog fortress. We came closer, when we felt a shuddering impact. The driver turned to us.  
  
"All right, we're seen! Let's move, move, move! This chicken's about to fry!"  
  
I never knew the driver, and I never would. For as soon as all of the soldiers were out, a powerful blast rocked the Badger, which kicked up a small shock wave of dust and metal. That kind of blast usually meant a magnetic rail gun of some sort. It didn't concern me, as that kind of thing would rarely be used on infantry.  
  
Basically, it was my 11 comrades and I, charging foreword into withering gunfire. A hairy situation, typical to be heard of in war-related films and such. In fact, bum rushes to this simplicity hadn't been ruled out by a thousand years of technology, not since the old 'great' world war conflicts on earth, where the density of men and guns was so high, casualties were ridiculous.  
  
I would say the base was about a half kilometer from where I was now. I could make out vehicles and battlemechs, none of whom seemed to be fighting each other anymore. It seemed the conflict had already been lost, since the Com Guards hadn't any battlemechs except for a couple of old Hunchback types.  
  
Suddenly, a large shell of some sort hit the ground nearby, causing a shower of dirt to erupt into the air. It briefly obscured the group of enemy soldiers that were running toward us. I quickly stopped, sank to my knees and aimed. I could barely make out their forms in the dark. I began to fire quite rapidly, not worried about expending ammunition. My squadron seemed to do the same. They began firing back. I couldn't remember how long it took, but I know that eventually, it scattered, leaving minor injuries to our group. It was at this point that the larger scale fighting began to escalate. I looked back to see our tanks, a few of which were already destroyed, firing their main weapons. Looking foreword again, I saw the enemy tanks doing the same, although their weapons seemed to be mainly lasers.  
  
I ran foreword again, and didn't stop until I could see clearly the wrecked turrets of the fortress. As lightning flashed, I several large, fast- walking shapes that looked back towards us while firing arrays of weapons. They were the battlemechs, which seemed to not have been hit at all, except for a couple near the fortress, which didn't move. I'd always heard that unless they were completely obliterated, battlemechs stood silently when they were destroyed.  
  
My group had now successfully reached the back of the fortress, where a large, gaping hole waited. We snuck around the building, where we met an awful surprise. An enemy battlemech loomed frighteningly over us. It wasn't a Hunchback, but a thinner model with an arm that fired what looked like some sort of powerful laser beam. After a couple seconds of letting my blood thaw out, I realized that it wasn't paying attention to us. Its beam shot out at our vehicles and hit something I couldn't quite make out.  
  
Several soldiers were scattered about, mostly ignoring us. I fell prone and fired on them behind their barricades, while my comrades did the same, since they and I knew that small arms would be near useless and only draw attention. Joseph, however, had happened to bring along a large short- range missile launcher. He aimed it up at the battlemech, waited, then squeezed the trigger. The missile hit the mech in the upper thigh area. I couldn't see its reaction, since I had to keep my eyes trained on the enemy soldiers. I saw Louis fall to the ground after a burst of gunfire from a heavy mounted machine gun traced our location. I heard Joseph fire another missile, then aimed and fired at the person manning the machine gun. He ran back behind the barricade, leaving it vacant. A third missile was fired.  
  
The battlemech shifted its legs. I looked up again to see two black pits in its upper chest. I saw it lower its laser arm to our position. My only instinct was to jump. I saw a blinding flash of light, and felt searing heat boil the skin along my back. I turned back and saw a steaming crater in the dirt where Joseph had stood. I couldn't remorse, my train of though was interrupted. Three Bulldog battle tanks closed in on the battlemech and started a triple-jointed assault. All I saw were flashes of light from their turrets and white streaks of missiles from their sides. A moment later, the battlemech was teetering over, and it fell back into the ditch to join its crippled partner.  
  
Hours seemed to go by as I lay there, firing at the shadows of enemy soldiers and watching battlemechs and tanks fight it out. It seemed almost surreal, considering that I was just practically underneath a giant walking robot with weapons imbedded inside of it. I had realized that the enemy force was much larger to begin with, mainly because of their extra tanks. The battlemechs fought consistently and deadly, not a single other one falling, and drawing plenty of missed fire. At last, our tanks stopped moving. White flags appeared out of their hatches.  
  
I looked for Gabriel or another member of squadron 32. They were scattered around where I was. Only a handful of them rose up to their feet. I waited, exhausted, for our tank crew to leave their vehicles and get hurried off by their captors.  
  
"Guys, let's get together, I think we're POW. Or bondsman, or whatever the hell these people do."  
  
We regrouped. I counted five of the twelve in my group, and only one poker buddy, Gabriel. The only one who had ever done any good. When he didn't fold.  
  
"I think we better go with them," said Gabriel.  
  
We walked down the narrow onramp that lined the inside of the ditch. Pirate guards surrounded us.  
  
"Don't move," they said. "Put your hands on your head." A bit cliché, even for guards.  
  
"We surrendered," I said.  
  
"Yeah, damn right you guys did. Little bastards," one of them replied. "Get moving. Come on, in here."  
  
We were herded on single-file, like cattle into a slaughterhouse. The fortress didn't look like it had taken much interior damage. It had the same duty, under-kept look about it, except now a new insignia was draped over the walls in prominent places, and the place was buzzing with technicians repairing turrets from the inside and fixing minor structural fractures in the walls. It seemed a lot smaller than from the outside, it really was only about four stories up, crowded and connected by simple metal stairwells. In addition, the back quarter of the fortress had been knocked through to repair the large hole made in it before.  
  
The guards led us up the stairs to the office of the Demi Precentor, who wasn't there at the moment-he'd probably been executed. Instead, there waited a crowded room full of others-mostly other Com Guard POW's who were caught up by pirate guards.  
  
"What are we doing for?" asked Gabriel.  
  
"Shut up, soldier!" said a guard. It shut him up.  
  
After what seemed like thirty minutes, a tall woman, flanked by four more pirate guards, stepped into the room and stood at the Demi Precentors chair. The pirate guards urged everyone to move back a few feet to make room, and windows were shot open when they were too lazy to open them manually.  
  
"I am Janis Osiers of the Storm Vanguard pirate group."  
  
No one spoke.  
  
"You are all prisoners of war now, having lost due to a mix of improper response time and poor combat skills. You've failed to manage yourselves properly. And now you are being offered a chance to redeem yourselves."  
  
This woman had a deep, clear, fake voice about her that reminded me of our drill sergeants.  
  
"You will all now serve our group, and our cause, whether you like it or not. Failure to comply will mean death, of course."  
  
Murmurs flittered throughout the room.  
  
"Well, what did you all expect? We're what you people have once deemed the scum of the universe, but will deem that way no more. You're under my command."  
  
I smiled, then laughed quietly. The weak outer shell of me was dreading this outcome, but something inside me couldn't be happier. I disliked the Com Guards, and was finally glad to be a part of something a bit more exciting, rollicking if you will, than the still-necked simplicity of the fake boot camp that was the Com Guards.  
  
"You will meet new people, and embark on more frequent, exciting sorties. You're all more likely to die this way, of course. But since you've all undergone training at the facility from which you've come, I'll assume you won't need too much personal counseling."  
  
I kept smiling. The woman looked at me. I got a more clear view of her now. She seemed to be in her mid to late twenties, with tied back black hair and careless, 'Jewish' eyebrows that looked bored and surprised at the same time. The rest of her face seemed rock-hard, stern.  
  
"You right there," she said, pointing in my direction. "What is your name?"  
  
"Franklin Rouse," I replied. Why lie in such a situation?  
  
"You seem to be eager for this change. Are you ready to accept a new and more fruitful order, one that will fulfill you in a way not done yet?"  
  
"Certainly."  
  
"Well, I have a feeling I have something more suitable for such an enthusiastic soldier. The rest of you can rest a while, before we start up the more advanced training programs. Franklin, you follow me."  
  
I followed her. I followed her past workers and engineers, who were ordered to rebuild the facility back to fighting condition. I followed her past diplomatic-looking fellows, who were ordered to contact the rest of Belsen and tell them that they're citizens of the Storm Vanguard Commonwealth. I followed her past technicians, who were ordered to repair and refit all salvage tanks and battlemechs. I followed her back to her office, which was now devoid of freshly captured POW's.  
  
"Franklin. Would you like to take part in a bit of battlemech simulation?"  
  
I smiled again. "In all gladness," I replied. 


	4. Setting the Scale for Assault

Mikhail log 2303  
  
We've done it again. The Storm Vanguards have now taken the edge of the Tamarind State. It is thanks to Janis Osiers, as usual, who has spearheaded the attack. I am again taken aback by the efficiency she manages to keep. A handful of old battlemechs and high-quality armor, and she manages to break through an entire battalion and steal it up for salvage. It wasn't even necessary to spring for reinforcements with her in command. All of them, turned from vile Blake worshippers to loyal Vanguards. Another piece of substantial proof that it is incentive that drives mankind, not divine intervention.  
  
This Janis must have had a beef with Comstar long before she met me, for she has never given any question to my orders, although it may be that I am a lenient man. She is the silver lining of the cloud that has befallen our other front.  
  
Turning to that front, the Turin Defense Initiative, a splinter faction of Comstar, has just captured our sole personal battlemech factory on Hesperus II. They won't make very much out of it, however, considering that the base is rigged to self-destruct in one day to ensure maximum casualties and minimum productivity until then. Davion has of course taken note of this, and, as expected, refused to build us another one, which means that we no longer have a source of redeeming support. We'll have to make do with what we've got, what we salvage and what we are offered directly.  
  
Mikhail log 2304  
  
Finally, I've an updated, exact inventory for the Storm Vanguard 3rd battalion.  
  
Pre Belsen: 1 Shadow Cat medium Clan-tech Omnimech 2 Wolfhound light SL-era battlemechs 2 Hatchetman medium SL-era battlemechs 1 Vulcan medium vintage model battlemech 2 Blackjack medium SL-era battlemechs 1 Commando light SL-era battlemech 2 Champion SL-era heavy battlemechs 1 Blackjack medium IS-tech Omnimech 1 Cyclops SL-era command mech  
  
2 Condor medium hover tanks 4 Vedette medium battle tanks 3 Brutus Assault heavy battle tanks 1 Short-range missile carrier 2 Maxim heavy hover transports 4 Patton heavy battle tanks 2 Marksman mobile Sniper artillery batteries 4 Thor mobile Thumper artillery batteries 3 Demon medium combat cars 2 Typhoon Urban Assault combat cars 1 Fury command tank  
  
14 Standard IS battle armor 4 Gnome IS battle armor  
  
13 battlemech pilots 144 maintenance workers 322 infantry  
  
Lost: 2 Wolfhound light SL-era battlemechs 1 Blackjack medium SL-era battlemech  
  
1 Vedette medium battle tank 1 Condor medium hover tank 1 Brutus Assault heavy battle tank 2 Patton heavy battle tanks 1 Maxim heavy hover transport 1 Thor mobile Thumper artillery battery  
  
3 maintenance workers 31 infantry  
  
Salvage: 1 Hunchback SL-era medium battlemech  
  
3 PO heavy battle tanks 5 Bulldog heavy battle tanks 2 Badger tracked transports  
  
56 venerable POW's  
  
This battalion, though certainly not my trump card, is the only one in the area besides the air battalion, which doesn't count as far as siege ability goes. It's strictly for support, since I never bomb pre-emptive. I may have to change this tradition with the squeeze for fresh units shortly in the future. If the Storm Vanguards are to ever get back on their feet, then we'll need to capture, or if need be, establish, a base in this region. That might tip Davion into building us another factory.  
  
Mikhail log 2305  
  
Well, it's been a royal pain, managing every exact, piddly detail for my 3rd battalion. I may simply decide to fuse it with my 7th, or, if worse comes to worst, disband one of my four regiments for extra supplies. But I should only have to stoop to these measures if the Storm Vanguards take heavy losses in the near future.  
  
This is a rude possibility, what with the horrible discovery that the Turin Defense Initiative is settling in the westernmost regions of Tamarind, a good way away from Belsen. I've a two-front war on my hands yet again.  
  
Comstar paying little attention to the Com Guard's loss is very good. They have, as always, overlooked diplomatic importance in favor of searching for raw material. Of course, no large stockpiles or key infrastructure points lay inside of Belsen. But I'm certain that the people's already shaky morale is beginning to shift. Blake may have a strong influence, but it doesn't go beyond religious belief. We'll see what the good citizens of Belsen think when the Storm Vanguards vastly improve their society and how hard it will be if they ever try to recapture.  
  
With thus my own influence ingrained, I will remove most of my 3rd battalion from Belsen at once to pursue more lucrative interests. Victor Davion himself told me that I should always concentrate on the little things before moving on to the more important stuff, but compared to the annihilation of an arm of Comstar, this is a little thing. I'm in doubt of the Turin Defense Initiative's ability to handle a mass tactical assault upon the freshly fortified rut they've dug themselves into. Hopefully, the genius of George Helmut and Janis Osiers will bring forth a mission well- done and hefty salvage to boot. 


	5. The Training Simulator

Well, over the past few days, I'd gotten to watch the Vanguards rebuilt the Comstar fortress and reprogram everything, basically making it one of their own. I'd often asked the officers what the establishment was for, and they'd usually say, 'shut up, POW!'  
  
Janis Osiers had taken a bit of interest in me, and said that I was a good candidate for piloting a battlemech. Of course, this should thrill the hell out of me. It did, but I recalled seeing the battlemechs get shot at the most, and wondered how good I would be at dodging and aiming and whatnot. After the stigma wore off, I decided to let her test me.  
  
She appointed me to this little glossy officer of hers named Marcie something, which ran the training simulator, and tested new recruits on their piloting skills. I'd seen the simulators through the windows in between POW break periods, and all the while, knew that all of us POW's would be shelled out for some sort of job. I'd wanted to use the simulators for quite some time, I'd long been a fan of any form of entertainment with flashing lights before my first training with Comstar. That's video games and TV, mainly.  
  
"So, you fancy yourself a veteran, then?"  
  
"Yes," I said. She winced her little made up face, then scrunched her nose. I probably forgot to apply Cologne properly.  
  
"Can you give me an exact gist of all of your 'experience'?"  
  
"I was trained at Comstar a few years back, then I was drafted by Capellan pirates for some quick money for my family. After my father died, and my mother was hospitalized, Comstar drafted me again to prepare for the Fedcom Civil War, and I underwent the training a second time. I was the most experienced in my platoon."  
  
No real response, only the doe-eyed stare.  
  
"That's veteran enough, right?"  
  
"So, Janis said to let you into the simulator? You'll have to wait until the others are done."  
  
"Okay. I'll go get a cup of coffee."  
  
On that nondescript note, I did just that, then returned to see a large group of people who looked surprisingly tired for having just done something that was mainly surmised of sitting on your ass. They were looking at this big green screen that probably had scores or something on it. Marcie had out a large list of names, and was calling people back for another round.  
  
"Oh, you're here again," she said to me. "Okay, Derek may have to explain some things to you. Derek!"  
  
A small, nerdish man turned his head toward her.  
  
"What do you want?" he replied. He had the voice of a prepubescent girl.  
  
"Um, he, Franklin I mean, needs to know how to work the stuff. In the simulator, that is. And the rules, also. Explain the rules to him."  
  
Derek beckoned me into the large room, where stood three rows of wall-to- wall booths. He opened up the first one, my having been the first in there, and I slipped inside. Derek showed me the basic controls-two joysticks, a bunch of little emergency buttons and some dials. Heat, Myomer pressure, fusion power output, etc. Then there was this little helmet that strapped over my face. And instantaneously, a whole new sense seemed to light up around me-it nearly gave me a seizure.  
  
"Hehe," said Derek as he saw my head snap back. "Don't worry, you'll just get used to it. Simple movement commands and weapon changes are much quicker with the neurohelmet. It's sort of hard to explain. We'll just say that your hands will know where to hit in different situations."  
  
"Wait, can you explain some of it? This is confusing."  
  
Well, the little man obviously had little patience. He gave me a frank, reluctant overview of what did what, even though I had the feeling that I already knew. It was basically movement, torso twist, aiming and switching weapons. The battlemechs actuators and neurohelmet would do the rest.  
  
"Okay, you're ready, then?"  
  
"Um, I think I got it. Who do I shoot and who don't I?"  
  
"Well, this round, we're on teams, so you're supposed to shoot whatever doesn't appear your color on your IFF. Your mechs aren't painted according to teams, as such would likely be in a real battle. Tanks are also identified by IFF. You're red, so help don't shoot reds. Simple?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Derek slammed shut the simulator, and seconds later, I heard his voice over my radio frequency.  
  
"Okay, people," he said in that girlish voice. "This simulator mission is a battle to the last team, kill, nothing else. There are two heavy mechs and three mediums on teams red and blue. Teams yellow and green have three mediums and five lights. And all of you have three tanks and three hovercrafts. No battle armor this time."  
  
My view screen flashed to life. All of a sudden, I was in a well-simulated tropical jungle. My IFF showed a rotating image of my mech, all body parts green, which had apparently meant that it was in perfect health. Above it was the word 'Champion'. The mech itself looked rather ugly, like a broad- bodied airplane with thick wings. It had six holes on one side of its chest, and a large gun on the other. Smaller holes lined the direct front. My weapons list scrolled down in the upper right hand corner.  
  
LB-10X AC SRM6 MLAS MLAS SLAS SLAS  
  
I hadn't been briefed on what those meant, but I had a feeling the one at the top would be the most effective. I fired it. A gunshot sounded, and a spray of bullets or something flew out. I fired the second one. A swarm of missiles fired, then crashed a few hundred yards off. The others were laser beams, the first two slightly more powerful than the last.  
  
I moved foreword. The walking was a bit jerky when the Champion accelerated, but then smoothed out almost perfectly. On my radar, a flurry of red dots indicated allies to the west and east. Another flurry of blue dots lay out front. I moved to their locations. I stepped over some trees, then saw enemies approaching.  
  
There were two large shapes, and some slow-moving hulks ahead. One of them had sharp claws and moved very fast. My IFF picked it up and identified it as a Specter. I turned my legs to the side, but kept my torso facing it. A blue ball of some sort flew out of its right arm, and missed to my side by what must have been a few meters. I brought my targeting reticule up, and fired the first weapon leading off just a little bit. The spray of bullets flew out, and I couldn't see if they made contact or not, so I fired the missiles. The Specter swerved to the side, and fired two red beams from its left arm. They hit somewhere below my cockpit. The little image of my Champion turned yellow around the lower-right torso.  
  
"Newbie, huh?" I heard over my radio frequency.  
  
I didn't respond, but rather steadied my Champion's legs to my torso again, then fired the shotgun toward its head. I was pretty sure it would do more damage there. Sparks and small explosions appeared around its arm, where the bullets must have connected. His arm appeared orange on my IFF. I waited for him to charge at me again, then fired off all my lasers. They stabbed into the Specter's midsection.  
  
The blue blast shot out again. It hit right below the cockpit. The simulator shook, and blue energy resounded within the cockpit. What the hell was that? I decided to start moving again. I flanked him as he came at me, then turned my torso and fired the missiles. They missed. I fired the LB-10X. The bullets missed. Then, a small shower of rockets flew from my right side and hit the Specter all over, causing a rippling sea of fire and smoke. On my IFF, his body and arms glowed red and orange, along with his right leg. Everything else was still green.  
  
"There you, go, good luck with 'em," I heard in a different voice. Ah, well. I was a newbie. I needed some support.  
  
I swiveled around and moved toward him, firing all of my lasers again. They hit his arm, and it fell right off! My little red heat gauge began to climb, and waves of warmth blew into the cockpit to simulate the effect.  
  
"You're gonna die," said the Specter pilot. He ran straight at me, then reached out with his fists. We collided, and for some reason, my mech fell over, and his didn't. What unfair hash was this? I may have keyed in a complaint to him if it wouldn't have distracted my piloting.  
  
He stood over me, and aimed his arms (presumably laden with the weapons) right at my cockpit. I fired my LB-10X and missiles, and of course, all of them hit him right in the torso section. Boo-yeah! The IFF showed his body glow red, then turn black. From cockpit view, his mech appeared to be flashing blue, then falling over onto mine and exploding. The simulator jerked, then went black. The words 'you're out' appeared on my screen.  
  
"Damnit," I said as I took off the neurohelmet. That was foul play. He ran right into me! Just a cheap way of assuring a kill without having to use skill. He would never do that in a real Goddamn fight.  
  
I opened up the simulator, then walked joined the other people who'd lost already. Three men and women were squabbling over their loss. A girl sat, huddled up in the corner, a willful look on her face. Two guys sat shoulder to shoulder. One of them looked around, then over his and at him.  
  
"Did you get rammed by Scott?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah," I said. "I took him down, though."  
  
"He got me. He finished me off right as I was damaged. I had a Victor, and one of my arms was gone. He just crashed into me."  
  
"Dude, he's doing pretty bad," said the girl. "I think I'm doing a little better, I just need to flank better. Scott's doing pretty badly, though. He gets a suicide count for almost every kill, which basically cancels it out."  
  
"Be glad you got him," said the guy. "You a newbie?"  
  
I signed. "Yes."  
  
"At least you got a kill on your first round. Only the best people actually get battlemechs in the end. There are so few of them during this war."  
  
Over the nest few minutes, the last few people began to trickle out, and eventually, two more, infuriated with each other, stomped out of the room. One was a woman with black hair, eyes and clothes. She looked like a total, natural Goth. The other was a man with a plaid button-up shirt, brown and green, with blue jeans and leather boots. In other words, completely out of place. I tried not to stare.  
  
"You're a cheap, pathetic loser," said the woman.  
  
"Look, if they put it on the mech, then it works in real life, and it's a good tactic."  
  
"You always go for that cheap kill. It's idiotic. You should be disqualified."  
  
"Oh, blow it out, you little cunt."  
  
I waited until they were on opposite sides of the room, then I asked, "who are those two? Was that Scott?"  
  
"No," said the girl. "Scott lost a while ago. Those are Jinni Grenache and Frank Rice."  
  
"Huh, that's weird. I'm Franklin Rouse."  
  
"They're the best two in the simulator. Frank likes to use the 'death from above' maneuver. It's where you use jump jets, then land on the enemy's head and crush it. It rarely works, but he's really good at it."  
  
"Jinni's a real cheapo," said the guy. "She just stays back and snipes. But she's really good at one on one combat, which it normally comes down to after she and someone else are the sole survivors."  
  
After the fighting between everyone died down, a woman held out the scorecards. I placed ninth out of sixteen, just besting the average of one kill. The girl, named Sandy, was twelfth. Both boys placed fourteenth and fifteenth, respectively. Scott placed fifth. Frank Rice placed first, and Jinni, second. The top three averages were displayed, and both were amazingly close, Jinni's a little higher.  
  
The next round was an eight-team battle, two players to a team. I decided to go with Sandy, just to pull her average up, but I didn't dare tell her that. Each pair got a heavy mech and a medium mech, or an assault and a light. I was grateful to be of the former pair, since we would both be evenly matched in terms of speed.  
  
My mech for this round was called a Cataphract, though it didn't have a shadow of resemblance to the ancient warriors, and Sandy was given a Bushwhacker. Mine had a rounded cockpit and two arms, one a fist, the other a pair of guns. Hers was an ugly little squat with guns on the front, arms and shoulder.  
  
I lurched off to the right, seeking cover in the jungle, and she followed. I slammed into what looked like a wall of trees, and the mech slowed down, the simulator shaking gently as each well-rendered palm brushed across my cockpit. After five minutes of what seemed like getting nowhere, I came out into an oasis, where two mechs were sitting, back to back, both of their sides facing toward me.  
  
Similarly to my other mech, the Champion, this one had an LB10XAC, and with it, a UAC5. Not knowing quite what either was, I aimed carefully and fired both of them at the one on the right, which my computer identified as a Shootist. Both of my guns spewed bullets of different kinds, and they all collided with the right side of the Shootist. The arm fell off, and both mechs came to life on us.  
  
Sandy was soon at my side. She blasted away with her right arm gun, then began spewing away with machine guns and a powerful laser on the front of the Bushwhacker. I joined her with my other weapons, the ever-useful 'medium lasers'. The shots spread mid-level around their torsos, doing no serious damage, but keeping their aim off.  
  
Or not. The Shootist fired a large gun in its left torso. The impact was terrifying. The Cataphract was nearly knocked off its feet. While I stabilized, Sandy managed to start flanking the other mech, an Enforcer, and shooting at it while moving to dodge its return fire.  
  
I moved my Cataphract to the side. The Shootist fired again, blowing my left arm off. I returned by firing my two main guns at it, hitting it all over the left side and midsection. He began to run at me. I narrowly swerved from a punch with its remaining arm, then returned fire again with my guns at point-blank. They hit his left side.  
  
An explosion rocked the Shootist. Its other arm fell off, and its body, already mashed into, began to pour smoke. Rapid-fire flashes emitted from its torso, and then one from its head. My right side was already orange, and it became red, along with a yellow midsection. I moved a good distance away, just in case he should try to ram me, then turned and saw him idling after. I fired my guns again. The impact point flashed with explosions, and his mech began to split open. I fired the medium lasers at what remained. The mech flashed blue, then exploded, similar to Scott's mech.  
  
Meanwhile, Sandy and the Enforcer had done little to each other. Both nibbled back and forth with guns and lasers. I added my guns, and while missing with most of them, threw it off balance, causing it to trip over some stones. As it got up, it was a nice target for a swarm of the Bushwhacker's missiles.  
  
The enforcer's body flashed red, and its arms and sides were orange. It fired its lasers, and began to circle-dodge our shots. My cockpit warmed a little when four medium laser shots missed their mark. I aimed and fired my guns again, and the shells led back a little and struck the right side, causing it and the right arm to blacken out, indicating their destruction. Then, to all my delight, the Enforcer lit up and exploded in a blue flash. I keyed her in.  
  
"Why did he die?" I asked. "I thought you had to lose your midsection! What, did he get too high overall damage or something?"  
  
"His right torso got destroyed. When you have an XL engine, it makes all torso areas vulnerable," she replied.  
  
"What's an XL engine?"  
  
"It means 'extra light'. It only weighs half as much, but it makes you, in theory, three times as vulnerable. It's really good for certain things, but only if you can pack on enough firepower and armor to make it worth it. The Enforcer variant you just killed had one. So does my mech. Your Cataphract does too, I think."  
  
"Yep. This thing has an ass load of things to shoot."  
  
True words-I preferred it to the Champion I had used before. It felt a lot more vulnerable, and it was ugly as hell. This thing looked like a killing machine, not a walking airplane.  
  
Another couple enemies rose up out of the savanna, a Panther and a Victor. One looked like a boxy robot toy with a gun strapped to its arm. The other looked like a man with a crown of some sort. I picked out the larger of the two, then stopped, turned left and flanked. Sandy fired a small swarm of missiles, and most of them struck the front and sides of the charging Victor. They had no visible effect on its stability.  
  
"Smart move," I said. "Take out the big one first. I'll assist."  
  
I aimed at the little shape in the distance, and did the usual combo of my UAC5 and LB10X. I saw no impact effect, but I did notice the smaller mech, the Panther, firing a strange blue blob, similar to the one fired by the Specter. It carried the same effect-harsh impact, blinding flash and sparks everywhere. I stopped moving, then aimed at it-my guns where quick to reload-and fired. From where I was, I saw its chest crumple, explosions welling up around its left side. Sandy fired her weapons, most of them connecting. A final red beam caused its left side to literally fall off.  
  
The big, mean, Samurai-looking Victor drew close and fired its arm-mounted gun. A thundering impact hit me mech, and my entire body-both sides and center-began to turn red. Another blue blob from the Panther hit lower, and my leg joined the body. I moved foreword, but it said 'actuator damaged'. I could barely crawl. I was a sitting duck.  
  
"How do you self destruct?" I called out, not completely serious. I didn't want to lose.  
  
After no reply came through, I fired all weapons-my guns and lasers-at the Victor. Oh, it did burn. Its entire upper body smoked and crackled and shed metal. Then, it teetered-and fell over.  
  
This was my chance. I moved up close, then fired off my LB10X. The bullets scoured into the right side. It didn't have a LX engine. I fired the UAC5, then the lasers. They blew the midsection apart. The familiar blue flash brightened the sky, then faded into smoke and fire.  
  
Sandy had fired her big right arm gun (no idea what it was called) and destroyed the Panther, scorching the wreckage with her laser just for good measure. With this satisfaction, I slowly waddled on, watching her speed ahead. But then, I noticed a hail of missiles flying through the reddish sky. I hoped they would hit the ground, but no-every one of them hit her. I quickly selected to see her status. Red and orange everywhere. I passed up a group of trees to my left, and saw a stout dark figure. I targeted it, and it said, "Catapult".  
  
The Catapult fired another swarm of missiles, then some lighting-fast beams of some sort. Sandy's Bushwhacker exploded. Its image disappeared from my HUD.  
  
All too late, my hand toggled the zoom button. It let me see an enlarged image of the Catapult, a round, egg-shaped machine with big missile packs on its shoulders. It didn't move at all. Smoke billowed from its fuselage. Then it disappeared from my HUD as well. I aimed for the center, near the window glass, then fired my cannon-combo. Both guns sounded, as usual. But then horror struck as my UAC5 became red on my weapon list, and read 'jammed, weapon disabled'. I bore it out, and trudged toward the metal egg, watching it raise its ''head'' again, the smoke fading away.  
  
A series of beeps sounded, along with 'warning, missile lock'. Shit. I knew that I was slow as hell, so I fired one last LB10X shot into its center before the Catapult could reach a full trot. The flashed around its body erupted into the now-familiar blue explosion marking the destruction of a fusion reactor.  
  
What? I thought. I'd only brought its body to orange at the very worst! Why did it explode?  
  
Well, my gratitude was interrupted by the swarm of missiles, which exploded all around me, engulfing my cockpit in a bright yellow inferno. The body of my Cataphract flashed red, then disappeared. 'You're out' appeared before me again.  
  
I took off the helmet, then walked out to join the other losers. Almost everyone was out. Even Jinni, I'd noticed. In fact, the only person I couldn't find was Frank Rice.  
  
"Good job!" shouted Sandy, thoroughly startling me. "You kicked ass! This is my first kill."  
  
A man looked at her and guffawed, got told to piss off, then shrugged away with his friends. Frank's out-of-place attire now filled the doorway, a look of triumph on his face. Behind him was a sullen, freckle-faced man Sandy identified as Scott.  
  
"Looks like I got it again," said Frank, head raised in mock triumph. He patted Jinni's shoulder. She punched his arm, then his face. Frank rubbed his jaw, then just stood and laughed.  
  
The scores came out, and as usual, Sandy and the boys were low on the list- tenth, twelfth and thirteenth respectively. Jinni was fifth, Scott was third, and Frank Rice was first. And what surprise I'd felt to see Franklin Jehovah Rouse (yes, I'd told the secretary-bimbo my full name) in second place. Apparently, I'd gotten four kills, which put me ahead of Scott by one-though he'd lasted longer.  
  
My average of kills, longevity and hit efficiency put me, according to the next list, in fifth place of twenty seven overall-just ahead of Scott, and behind four others, two of them Jinni and Frank. And Jinni's proud first- place name switched over to second, as Frank's latest victory placed him first.  
  
With the next few matches befell a storm of Jinni's fury, particularly towards Frank Rice. I made sure to stay out of their way. But I was certain I'd got the hang of piloting. 


End file.
